Bad (Hair) Day
by Static Prose
Summary: drinking leads to a bad morning... and a very bad hair day....


Bad (Hair) Day:

A seemingly aimless quick fic

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Warnings: Rare profanity, implied 3x4/4x3, implied cross-dressing, suggested 1x2/2x1, use of the word 'fag,' which, in my view, is a really mean word, Heineken, drunkenness, vomitting, and hangovers, expactorated food, 1x2x4x3x5x13x6xR... Just kidding...

Not suitable for anyone. Do not read.

Heero's POV

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It was morning. God dammit all to hell. After the time I had last night, waking up was about the last thing I wanted to do right now. I mean, come on! If you had downed two six packs of Heineken plus any other alcoholic beverage you could get your hands on, then proceeded to pass out in your comrade's lap, then later that night, awake to pray to the porcelain bowl in the bathroom, don't you think you'd be feeling a bit... icky? I vaguely remember dancing with the lamp shade on my head last night. Eww... that's not something I want to think about right now. Who would have known that I would be such a drunk? Heero Yuy, the king of cold, really knows how to loosen up when you hand him a brewsky and tell him "bottoms up!"

The alarm next to my bed didn't go off. That's a good thing. I must not have set it last night. It's noon already. I squint my eyes at the tiny little digital numbers and moan inwardly as a push myself up from the mattress with my hands. My muscles ache and I feel just about ready to vomit... for the third time. My door suddenly swings open, and there's that cheery little bastard Duo, hopping around in my door frame. He does a kamikaze dive bomb onto my bed and jolts my worn-down body nauseatingly. "Good morning to you, and how do you do!?" he screeches down at me. I throw a pillow at him and moan pathetically. "You look aaaaaaaawful, Heero!" he screeches again.

"I can imagine," I mumble at the pillow I quickly bury my face into.

"No! You can't imagine... you really do look awful. I mean... like, disgustingly awful. You should go look at yourself in the mirror! I'm serious. It's really..."

"Duo!!" I scream suddenly, instantly regretting the action. It sends my head doing whirls and twirls of pain and it starts to throb internally as if my brain wants to explode. "Get out."

"I'll see you downstairs for lunch," he says cheerfully, rolling off of my bed and onto the floor like some wormy thing. "You already missed breakfast, so hurry up, or no pork chop sandwiches, greasy fries, and tall glasses of rancid milk for you!"

My stomach suddenly begins to churn like butter, and I can feel the bile rising in my throat at the mere mention of food. I jump up from my bed and immediately race for the bathroom. I'll bet my face is pea green with nausea right now. I turn on the water in the sink and splash some in my face, trying to regain my composure. "I will not throw up. I will not throw up," I keep telling myself. After a few minutes of this mantra, the nausea stops, and I can finally take a look in the mirror.

I let out a shrill scream at my own reflection. Duo was right. I look horrible. One of my eyes is red and swollen, as if I've busted a blood vessel, every strand of my hair is sticking in a different direction from the other, my clothes are practically falling off of my body... I don't even know who's they are or where I got them. My lips are chapped and dry and really icky looking. My breathe stinks, my teeth are dirty, and I smell. Definitely not a good morning.

First thing's first. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. Of course... why not? There is no toothpaste in the tube. I squeeze as hard as I can right next to the nozzle, I fold it up and scrunch it, I roll the tube over itself, but nothing comes out. Finally, after nearly ten minutes of this, a blob just about the size of a flea falls next to my toothbrush, and right onto the floor. I dab it up with my finger and stick it on the bristles, not caring that it fell on the floor, then proceed to scrub my funky whites. I do not succeed. There's far from enough toothpaste. It doesn't even get bubbly in my mouth, so I opt for mouthwash, at least. I grab the small bottle of yellow liquid and pour some into the cup, then tilt my head back as the liquid flows into my mouth... and straight down my throat. Gross. I really did not mean to swallow that sickening glob of astringent-tasting nastiness. It makes my stomach feel even worse, and I cough hoarsely as I feel my guts hula dancing in my stomach.

Now that I've freshened up my mouth, and grossed out my stomach even worse, time for my hair. I don't even know what to do with it. I grab Duo's brush that's sitting on the counter and decide to give it a try. Brushing from front to back, I run the long bristles through my hair, and every strand falls into exactly the same place. My hair still looks horrible. I get frustrated and brush my hair angrily, not caring the it's scratching my tender scalp. It's not working. I guess I'm just having a really bad hair day. I stick my head in the sink, under the running water, and drench the damned hair, then slick it back. It sticks close to my head and looks very strange, but it's better than the way it was before.

Now, my left eye. I don't know what the hell to do about that. I guess a popped blood vessel is a popped blood vessel. Sunglasses. That'll cover it. I put Duo's sunglasses on. I swear, that boy leaves everything lying around in the bathroom. His underwear, brushes, sunglasses, drink cups, shirts, shoes, socks, jewelry... you name it, it's been here. Sometimes I wonder if he lives specifically in the bathroom. He seems to truly enjoy it in here. I can't understand why. Now I look truly strange. My hair's slicked back, and I'm wearing sunglasses. I quirk an eyebrow. Well... maybe it doesn't look that bad.

I have no fucking idea where these clothes came from, or who's they are. That unnerves me slightly, but I shove the ideas and naughty thoughts from my mind and quickly strip out of them. Unfortunately, I have no idea where my spandex and green tank are. They're not in the bathroom, so I wrap a towel around my waste and do a mad dash to my bedroom. Once there, I check every inch of the room looking for the precious garbs, yet I can't find them. They aren't in the laundry hamper, they're not bundled up under the bed, they aren't in my dresser, not in my desk, where I had seriously doubted they would be, they aren't flung up onto the ceiling fan. They're gone. I sigh to myself forlornly. I love those clothes! Oh, well. I'll just have to wear some of Duo's I suppose.

I run across the hall to his room and pull open his top drawer, then shriek at the sight. His underwear. Next drawer. Socks. Hundreds of them. Next drawer. Hair products! Hair products? Gel, mousse, hair ties, brushes, combs, hair spray, leave-in-conditioner... the list goes on and on. Next drawer has nothing but junk. Useless scraps of paper, some batteries, a screw driver, a wrench, a broken wrist watch with no wristband, an empty picture frame, three fake fingernails (I choose not to ask) shoestrings, an empty wallet, some bottle caps, loose change. Next drawer. Well, it has clothes, but... they're all black. Absolutely every article of clothing is black. And they're all the same thing. Plain black jodhpurs. Black pants, black shirts. Next drawer contains all white. All white long sleeve turtlenecks that he wears under the black. I sigh to myself and grab a white shirt and black pair of pants and quickly slide them on.

One thing left. My lips. They're so dry, they hurt when I lick them. I'm sure Duo must have some sort of chapstick in one of those drawers. I pull open nearly every one of them and search thoroughly, but come up with nothing. The one tube I did find was totally empty. I slink back into the bathroom and do a once over of the medicine cabinet. Nothing. The best I can find is some Vaseline under the sink. The jar is almost empty. I don't even want to ask what Quatre's been using it for. I mean, this is his house. I'm guessing he's the one who's been using it. I smear a very small amount onto my lips, and it coats them nicely. They don't hurt as much now.

That's when I catch my reflection in the mirror. It doesn't even look like me. White turtleneck, black pants, sunglasses, shiny lips. I look... sexy. I shrug my shoulders and choose not to care, as I slowly drag myself out of the bathroom and stomp down the stairs into the kitchen. Everyone is, surprisingly , sitting around the table doing different things. Wufei's reading the paper, Duo is, as usual, eating, Trowa's drinking coffee, Quatre's drinking tea. Typical day. I stomp my feet on the floor as I come to the last step and everyone takes a quick glance at me, then stares. I mean, they _stare._ Duo spits out whatever it is he's been chewing and it goes flying over the table and onto the floor. "Heero!?" he squeaks.

I glare at him from behind the sunglasses and slump down into the chair across from him. "Are those my clothes!?" he screeches at me again.

"Yah... I couldn't find mine."

He just kind of stares at me a moment. "Okay..." After a moment of staring at me, a slow smile begins to form on his lips. "Heero..." he says playfully. I glare at him. "I hate to tell you this, but you look like a fag."

I'm really not in the mood for this right now. "Duo, if I look like a fag, then so do you, every single day of your life."

"I know. Why do you think I dress the way I do!?"

I raise my eyes from the spot on the table I've been staring at and begin to stare at him. I can feel my cheeks turning red from embarrassment. He smirks at me, a wide, childish grin, then winks one eye playfully in a seductive manner.

I can feel my cheeks go from embarrassed flushed to excited red when his foot begins to toy with mine underneath the table. It feels nice...

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This was written in, like, five minutes, but it did help slightly to get over the writer's block. Reviews not necessary for this one, but they will still be appreciated. Flamers... well, if you flame me, I can make s'mores! Ç_Ç;; V


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